Falling in Love with Natassia

by Anna Monardo

  The nearly beautiful waitress roller-skated past them in her tight black pants. When she glanced at Christopher, he looked away.

  “Yeah,” Christopher said, “it happens. Everybody says that, but Nora and I were never like that. I mean, for a while now, all the time, it’s so…unpleasant. I feel like…”

  “Another round here?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah,” Christopher said. “I’ll get this.” He reached for his wallet. “I feel like we’re losing each other.” The bartender took the money and pretended he’d heard nothing. “And I’m getting old,” Christopher continued, “and I just feel my life slipping away.”

  “Did you tell Nora this?”

  “She’s not talking to me. You know, I’m forty next year. I mean, we know people who died when they were forty.”

  “We know people who died before they were forty, but you can’t—”

  “Who do we know died before forty?”

  “A guy had a studio in my building. I think you met him. Don Wojciekowski. Tall guy, big. Quiet. Painted big, big abstract landscapes.”

  “Landscapes? Did he teach at Art Students League?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I met him, like, two years ago, at Tina’s opening. In fact, I was supposed to cover some of his classes for him because he had to go in for treatments, but I was never free at the right time. But he was doing good, he told me. He said he was in, what do you call that, remission?”

  Piper shook his head. “No, his remission remitted. He didn’t recover. Don died. Don’s been dead now over a year.”

  “Je-sus, you’re kidding.”

  “I kid you not, my friend. And in fact, this is weird talking about it. Just last night, at this opening, somebody was telling me about Don’s wife.”

  “Kids?”

  “No. No kids. That’s the thing. I guess, when he was dying, he and his wife were trying real hard to have a kid, so now—she’s a writer of some kind, name’s Denise—she’s looking for a painter to be a sperm donor so she can have a baby.” Christopher watched Piper pull out his wallet and dig through a clump of business cards.

  “She’s looking for painter sperm?”

  “Basically, that’s it. As close to her husband as she can get, that’s what she wants.”

  “Why doesn’t she just find a new husband?”

  “Not interested. Don’s not been dead that long, and they were married forever. I mean, really a long time, longer than me and Micaela. Maybe twenty years. This Denise and Don were nuts for each other. I don’t know the full story, but apparently, when he died, or maybe before he died, she was pregnant and had a miscarriage, and so now she’s all business about—Here.” Piper handed Christopher a card. Cheaply made, but the typography was nice, the layout formal and discreet: Denise Wojciekowski, a phone number with a 914 area code, a P.O. box address in Nyack, New York. “Somebody gave me this last night. All Don’s old friends are handing these out at openings.”

  Christopher took the card. “And how does this work?”

  “I guess people call her, guys do. Don was solid, had lots of friends. She interviews you and all that. You go to a lab and they test you for HIV and herpes and hep and all that, and then there you are.”

  “Is she having sex with all these guys she picks?”

  “No, cowboy, get with it. You squirt into a tube. Right there in the lab. My brother-in-law had to do it when my sister wasn’t getting pregnant. They set you up in a room with a video and magazines and plastic covers on the couch.”

  “No way. No way you’re going to sit around with a bunch of guys…” Christopher handed the card back to Piper.

  “Ah, man, it’s not a circle jerk, it’s not the baths. You go in alone, do your business, and come out with it in a little cup.”

  “And this Denise is actually finding guys who volunteer to do this?”

  “Yeah, I guess she just hasn’t found the right one, or it hasn’t worked or whatnot, because I heard about this a month ago, and then, last night, someone was telling me again. People keep giving around these cards with her name.”

  “Man,” Christopher said. “Man oh man, this is sad. Really sad story.”

  “But you got to hand it to her, going ahead trying to get what she wants. See? I love that about women, the way they get things done.”

  “She pretty?”

  “Denise? No, I can’t say she’s pretty.”

  Christopher was aware of feeling relieved. He was already drawn to Denise’s story, and if his body were drawn to the woman herself, there’d be trouble.

  “No,” Piper said, “she’s not a looker, this Denise. She’s smart. Shrewd, wise, like Old World. She and Don, both of them grew up Hungarian or Polish or something. They met when they were kids, in the old neighborhood. You know, half the time they were growing up, they didn’t speak English. Pennsylvania somewhere, I think.”

  “And what did you say she does?”

  “She writes. Some academic subject. You know, she’s troubled the way intellectuals get. Neurotic, touchy, impatient. And now that she’s bereft, she doesn’t take shit from anybody. Don was sick a long time, and she was with him every step. I mean, you say my wife and me, but we communicate over this canyon of all these kids, but Don and Denise were more like with you and Nora. It was just the two of them. Really close.”

  “Sad. Really, really sad.” As Christopher was pulling out his wallet to pay for the last round of beers, Piper handed over Denise’s card again. “Here, you take it. I’m supposed to give it to one other person. Now you pass it on to somebody. That’s how she’s getting this thing done.”

  Christopher took the card. “Yeah, who knows. Nora’s brother is always looking for something weird to do.”

  The two guys left the Saloon. Christopher was getting his train at Lincoln Center, Piper had to go to Columbus Circle for the train to Brooklyn. On the street, as they parted, Piper said, “Christopher, I’m just going to say this, and maybe I’m totally out of line, but, whatever’s going on with you and Nora, figure it out before you have a kid. I’m telling you, it’s the best thing you can ever do, being a father, but if you’re not both into it, it’ll kill you. Take your time.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “Peace to you, my man. Stay peaceful.”

  They slapped hands, and each went his way.

  WHEN CHRISTOPHER GOT HOME and the bedroom doorknobs were tied inside with a scarf, he stretched out on the couch. Nora had left him a pillow, a blanket. As he was taking off his jeans, the card with Denise’s phone number fell out of his pocket. He picked the card up off the rug, slipped it into the pocket of his black T-shirt, went to sleep.

  For the next few weeks, the phone number kept traveling all over him, pocket to pocket, wallet to pocket, in a way that Christopher finally understood to mean that sooner or later he would be calling this woman, Denise.

  WHEN HE FINALLY CALLED HER, it was from a phone booth. Two and a half weeks had passed since Piper had told Christopher the story of Don and Denise Wojciekowski. During that time, Nora had convinced Christopher for the umpteenth time to go with her to a marriage therapist, but it had been useless, the same thing all over again.

  This therapist was chubby, with bad skin, and she’d started the session as most of them did by asking, “How can I help you?” and Christopher had said, “I don’t think we need help. I think we just need to have a baby. We have a very good marriage. I think,” which was the truth.

  And then Chubbo asked Nora, “What are your thoughts?” and Nora ended up saying all her stuff, how for quite a while now she’d been feeling a lack of trust, feeling that Christopher wasn’t listening to her when she tried to talk about what was important to her. Nora said she felt “battered” by Christopher’s insistence that they have a child. Nora said she was lacking confidence in him and in the marriage—and in herself, too—and that’s why she wouldn’t have a kid.

  And then the therapist asked Nora why she felt all that stuff, and th
ere they were again, back in France, talking about a baby who was now a teenager and about a two-minute mistake Christopher had made fifteen years earlier.

  If Christopher could eviscerate those years in France from his life, if he could have those hateful two minutes in France electrocuted out of him, if he could pulverize the entire country of France from the map of Europe, he would do it. He would give anything to be able to do it.

  Anything.

  “Well,” Chubbo said at the end of the session, “there’s a lot here that needs to be talked about. There’s a lot to work on.”

  “Can I ask you,” Christopher asked her, “based on what you saw here of us and heard today, do you see us as people who should definitely never have a baby?”

  “No, of course not.” See, Christopher wanted to say to Nora, your therapist herself said it’s okay. The therapist continued: “You both worked today to try defining some problems you feel exist in your marriage. Difficult, difficult issues. I see a lot of love. I hear a long shared history between you.”

  “So we can have a child?”

  “Christopher, no one will, or should, ever tell you that you should not have a child. Or that you should. But Nora is saying she does not feel ready, while you say you are ready. There’s a lot to discuss. Some crucial past history. A great deal of present emotion. It will take time. And it will be a lot of work.”

  “Time,” Christopher said. “I’m almost forty, you know that? Nora is younger, but I’m almost forty.”

  “Yes, all this needs to be taken into consideration. But we really do need to stop for today.”

  Christopher walked out into the hallway while Chubbo and Nora set up a series of six appointments. Nora came to the door and read the dates to him. “Are these times okay with you?”

  Christopher nodded yes. But he knew he wouldn’t be showing up there again.

  When would they leave him alone?

  As Christopher and Nora walked single-file down the narrow hallway, Nora close behind him said softly, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.” They stepped out into the building’s European-style courtyard, fountain in the center, walls of elegant old windows reaching up floor by floor. Christopher had always wanted to have a look inside this complex. It took up an entire block on Broadway, between Seventy-ninth and Seventy-eighth streets, and had a gated entrance with a booth for the guard. Christopher took his time looking around before leaving. At least this visit wouldn’t be a complete waste.

  “I’m glad,” Nora said, standing near the gate, waiting for him, “that we’re doing this.”

  Some of the windows looking down into the courtyard were huge. Christopher could only imagine how big the apartments were. Lucky bastards who bought into this place way back when.

  “How did you feel,” Nora asked, “talking to her?”

  “She’s fine,” Christopher said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I felt fine.” He actually did feel fine. By now he knew how to manage these sessions. He’d sat through it and had not let himself get upset. Nora got upset. Let her be the hysterical one. Man, it happened every damn time. Two minutes into that conversation about France and she was always weeping. How do women hold on so tight to their misery, and for so long? Why do they do it to themselves? Christopher was pleased with himself that he had not raised his voice. He had not reacted in any way. He felt proud. His goal had been to show the therapist that he was calm and mature enough to be a parent. Meanwhile, Nora sitting there was a sopping mess.

  “Where’d you find her?” Christopher asked when they’d passed the guard.

  “A professional recommendation. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Nice building.”

  Out on Broadway, seemingly appeased, maybe a bit amorous, Nora suggested they have lunch at the Cuban-Chinese place a block away, so they did. They got a table by the window, they ordered. They ate, had coffee. Good fried plantains. They held hands. Then it was time for Nora to get back to her office. Christopher walked her to the corner. No crosstown bus waiting, so she decided to walk over to the bus stop on Amsterdam. Before leaving him, she said, “It means a lot to me that we’re doing this. I love you, you know?”

  He kissed her and watched her go.

  When Nora was lost in the crowds on Seventy-ninth Street, Christopher went straight to a phone booth, which smelled of piss. He pulled Denise’s phone number out of his wallet and used his calling card to place the call. He wasn’t going to speak, he just wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to hear the voice of someone else who, like him, had been cheated out of having a baby. Would she sound desperate or sad? Grateful for a call? Excited?

  Denise first shocked Christopher by answering her phone on the second ring—he’d been expecting an answering machine. The next shock was that her “Hello” was so annoyed, the impatient voice of someone whose work had been interrupted. “Who is this?” she ordered.

  “I’m sorry” was the first thing Christopher said to Denise. “I got your number from my friend Piper. Pierre Trideux? He has a studio over in the Brooklyn boatyards?”

  “You’re calling about the donor search,” she said.

  “You’re still looking?”

  “I’m considering various candidates.”

  Silence for a beat. Denise wasn’t a helper in the conversation. Nora had once explained to Christopher that the way to establish authority quickly in a phone call is to be the person who doesn’t rush to fill in the silence. Denise Wojciekowski was that person.

  “I mean,” Christopher asked, “are you still interviewing?”

  “I am.”

  She was typing on a computer keyboard, and she wasn’t stopping. There was nothing easy about this. “Well, if you’re still interviewing people and considering people, I wonder if, well, I’d like to talk with you. Maybe we could talk about this a little bit.”

  “If you know you’re interested in being considered, I’ll talk to you. But if you’re not sure, I can’t take the time.”

  “No. I’m interested. I know that. Yes. I want to talk to you. I just have some questions. I just—”

  She said she had work to do now and could not talk. She had answered the phone only because she was in the middle of an argument with an editor, who was supposed to call back any minute. Denise got Christopher’s name and told him she’d meet him on Thursday, day after next, at six o’clock at The Diner, at Sixth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. Or was it Fifty-fifth? Denise told him to be on time. She had only an hour’s dinner break from her job.

  “Can I just ask you a few questions?” he asked.

  “You’re calling from the city, right? It’s a toll call. Save your money. We’ll talk day after tomorrow.”

  Knowing he’d cancel by Thursday morning, Christopher hung up and realized he was completely pitted out. His underarms were soaked. The waistband of his khakis was soaked. When he stepped out of the phone booth, there was a breeze. It passed over him and he shivered.

  CHAPTER 13 :

  THE YEAR BEFORE

  Two days later, Thursday afternoon, Christopher still hadn’t had time to call Denise to cancel. His morning had been busy with errands that had to get done. Go to the bank to deposit a check for his motorcycle insurance. Walk to the post office to mail the insurance payment so it wouldn’t be overdue. Get the cat out of the vet’s by noon or they’d have to pay for an extra day, twenty-five bucks.

  It was already one o’clock when he did dial Denise’s Nyack number. He got her answering machine, which was no friendlier than her live voice. All business. How stupid not to remember that the reason they were meeting in the city was that she was working in the city today. He didn’t have her work number, had no idea what kind of job she had. During a short moment of panic, he thought of tracking down Piper to find out where this Denise Wojciekowski worked. Christopher had to get in touch with her to tell her he’d changed his mind, he wasn’t interested. Jesus. He’d told her his full name. Stupid. Told her he was calling from a phone booth on the
Upper West Side, which was a good decoy, since he lived downtown. Denise knew he was a painter and she knew his name, but that was all. If they didn’t actually see each other, the fact that he’d considered meeting her wouldn’t be real. What if his friends found out? Was he nuts, doing this? In the art world, where people were always tripping over one another? Piper? Piper knew everyone, and sometimes, if he had one too many beers, he talked. Shit. What if Nora found out?

  No, Christopher told himself, don’t cancel. Go there. Make it clear to this woman that the phone call was a huge mistake she should never utter a word about to anyone. My God.

  Two nights earlier, the night of the day they’d gone to Chubbo, the marriage counselor, Nora had been awake all night. Christopher had turned over and found her sitting cross-legged, trying to meditate. He sat up, too. “Sweetheart, what?” he asked her. “What’s wrong?” But he knew immediately, even in the dark, just from the tension in her arm when he put his hand there, and from the stuffy scent on her breath, that she was sinking into her deep sadness again. When she got like this, he felt helpless. It all went back to her parents’ dying in the fire, which was something Christopher couldn’t do a thing about. At least he hoped the fire was what she was sad about. What if, somehow, she’d found out about the phone call he’d made to this Denise person?

  Without any anger in her voice, she told him softly, “I’m so mad at you. The way we’ve gotten polarized, that you want a child and I’m the one saying no. It doesn’t give me a chance to feel how much I want to be a parent. You know I’ve always wanted a family. Do you know how important it is for me and for Kevin to have children? I mean, after the way we lost our parents. And we have no other family. None.”

  “I know, Nora, sweetie.” He mimicked her soft tone. “I know.” Thank God she was sad rather than angry. “I know how much—”

  “Chris, you know what I need most from you?”

  “What? Anything.”

  “What I need is for you to know me. I wish I had a chance to tell you everything I’m afraid of. I know that if I could just tell you my fears and believe you’re on my side—”